


The Gamekeeper

by Petits Pois (letsgogetlost)



Series: Amerihawk Week 2018 [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Deaf Clint Barton, Historical Accuracy, M/M, or an attempt thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 20:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgogetlost/pseuds/Petits%20Pois
Summary: Captain Stephen Rogers just can't seem to settle into civilian life after all his years in the Queen's army. But at least he has his friend Lord Stark to distract him - and Stark's handsome, bow-wielding gamekeeper to occupy his mind.(A vaguely late Victorian/Edwardian AU.)





	The Gamekeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Amerihawk Week 2018, Theme 5: Historical ~~or Futuristic~~  
>  (just a few minutes late)
> 
>  
> 
> I've done my best to create a semi-accurate, if vague, late Victorian/Edwardian setting on the fly. This does mean this fic includes historically accurate elements such as cigarette smoking and hunting. But I couldn't bring myself to go with "Stephen" and "Clinton", so Steve and Clint are staying Steve and Clint.
> 
>  
> 
> Certain scenes are heavily influenced by one of my favorite movies - guess the film, win a prize (and by 'a prize' I mean my affection and nothing else).

"Who is that?"

Anthony Stark looked up from the sketches and plans spread across his desk, and frowned at Captain Stephen Rogers, who had been loitering wistfully by the window for far too long that afternoon. "Who's what?"

"There. By the edge of the trees."

Stark heaved a sigh and got up, coming to stand by his friend. "Oh, that's just Barton. Our under-gamekeeper."

"Hm." Steve's eyes tracked the tall man in his brown tweeds as he walked along the treeline. "Does he truly use that bow?"

"Strange, isn't it? But he does, and he's handier with it than most men are with a gun. What's the interest?"

Steve shrugged. "I think I had an encounter with him in the village when I went for that walk last week."

"Oh? An _encounter_?"

Steve gave Stark a stern look, but Stark just grinned.

"Some drunks were ganging up on him - at least I think it was him. He ran off."

"Hm. Probably him. There are some laborers in the village who enjoy being bullies. Barton can hold his own, but I'm sure he was still glad of your able assistance."

"He was bleeding. Why don't you do something about them?"

"I try to discourage it, but I'm not going to go so far as to evict families just because their husbands or sons are poorly behaved."

"Nor should you."

"So, maybe you should go on patrol more often."

Steve laughed softly, but from the thoughtful look in his eye, it was clear he might do just that. When he turned to look out the window again, Barton was gone.

 

The next time Steve saw Barton was out in the garden - not far, in fact, from where he'd seen him walking the treeline. It was Steve's turn to be doing that walk, that time. Stark was tinkering late in his workshop and Lady Stark was out visiting with a friend and Steve, left on his own, was restless. Sometimes the inside of Stark's house seemed strange, foreign, after so much time away - a fact not helped by Stark's insistence on installing every new bit of innovation as soon as it was available. There hadn't been much chance for Steve to encounter electric light at far off army outposts, but Stark loved it and put it in every room.

Sometimes Steve just needed to get outside, where there was dark and stars, and cool, damp air that still felt like a revelation after years in the heat of the furthest-flung parts of the Empire.

As he walked, a crackling noise broke the quiet, and he leapt back, heart beating hard as a figure tumbled out from Stark's prized shrubbery.

The figure hit the ground, did a remarkably neat forward roll, and sprang to his feet - and then noticed Steve. He froze for a moment, like a rabbit caught in an unexpected light, then whipped off his cap, grinned, and did a bow like a music-hall performer. 

It was Barton, the gamekeeper. Steve recognized him now that he could see his light hair reflecting the glow of Stark's electric lights. He had a smear of mud on his cheek and a brace of rabbits in one hand, somehow still perfectly neat after his little performance, which Steve got the distinct impression had started unintentionally, with a trip or a fall.

"Evening, sir," Barton said.

"Oh - evening."

Barton's voice was husky, with a strong Northern accent Steve couldn't quite place, but that he liked rather a lot. He felt like his face must be flushing red enough to see in the half-light.

He was only aware he'd been looking at Barton for too long when the gamekeeper smiled again, slower this time, and softer. "G'night, sir."

"Good night."

He loped off into the dark, rabbits slung across his back, leaving Steve feeling a bit lost in the last light of the evening.

 

The next week, the Starks were having a house party, so there was an influx of people - some Steve knew, and some he did not. None he would call his friends, but certainly decent people. He had little time to stand at the window and watch the world go by, between all the meals and the teas, and the rides and walks, and the endless games of cards. But he did see Barton a few more times, moving in and out with the rest of the servants, getting things ready. He was there helping the footmen carry luggage, the first day, and their eyes met once, but Steve didn't think much of it. Just a chance thing.

The next time he saw much of Barton was at the shoot three days into the party. The head gamekeeper, Coulson, was running the show, conferring with the butler, Jarvis, and directing the loaders and the beaters. Barton seemed to be in charge of the dogs, who he directed deftly with whistles and hand gestures. In the lull at lunch, he worked sorting the carcasses and keeping the dogs out of trouble - and Stark caught Steve watching. For once, he didn't say anything, though.

As the meal ended and they all lingered over warm drinks in the cool air, Stark called Coulson over and consulted with him quietly. Steve expected that meant they were about to get back to shooting, but instead Coulson went to Barton, and talked to him alone, rather than directing all the men to get back to work. Barton nodded along and smiled, and then fetched out a box from their cart and crossed into the shooting field. Coulson followed, carrying what looked like a basket of fruit, and Stark started shushing everyone, making them turn and look with a "We're going to have a show."

And that they did. As soon as the two gamekeepers were in position, Coulson lobbed up an apple, and a moment later it was rolling along the ground with an arrow stuck through it. The trick was repeated again and again, in increasingly elaborate variations - Steve's favorite was when he struck three pears with three different arrows, all loosed at the same time.

The party oohed and ahhed through the display, and clapped when it was over. Barton bowed, grinning, and waved to his new fans.

Stark caught Steve's eye. "Impressive, isn't he?"

Steve cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to pretend he hadn't felt a stirring of something beyond respect for the man's skill. "Very."

"You should see him do acrobatics."

"Sorry?"

Stark grinned. "I have no idea where he learned any of it, but as well as the shooting he can tumble and bend like a circus girl."

Steve felt his eyes widen against his will, and he glanced away to look at Barton - remembering, suddenly, how he'd somersaulted when he came crashing out of the trees, that night they'd met on the lawn.

As though he could feel Steve's eyes on him, Barton turned from where he'd been talking to Coulson, grinned, and did a cartwheel, making several of the ladies in the crowd laugh with delight. Coulson shook his head, obviously used to those sorts of antics, and Steve couldn't help but smile. 

He stopped, though, when he caught Stark grinning at him. He had the feeling that Stark had arranged that whole display for his benefit, not for the party at large. He knew he wasn't unsafe with the man, but he still did question his friend's motives and judgment, in that as in most things.

 

The party didn't shoot the next day, and Steve didn't expect to see Barton again. It certainly wasn't his conscious intention when he slipped out of the drawing room after dinner and stood on the terrace, smoking and looking at the sky. And yet when a figure materialized out of the dark and took off his cap, revealing fair hair, Steve wasn't surprised. In fact, he was a little glad. For all how little he knew about the other man, he did like him. And he wanted to know more.

"Barton," he said by way of greeting, and nodded at him.

Barton nodded back. His eyes were on Steve's mouth, and Steve felt very aware of the cigarette there. He pulled out his case and opened it, offering him a smoke. Barton accepted and took one carefully, slowly, his fingers brushing Steve's where he held the case. Then he leaned close, so close, without asking permission or even pausing, and lit his cigarette off the burning end of Steve's, light and smoke flaring up briefly between them. He didn't move away. His eyes flickered up, and Steve sucked in a breath. A smile touched Barton's mouth, and then he did move away, lazing against the wall of the house, one foot up on the stone, knee cocked.

Steve joined him, and Barton shifted ever so slightly closer, until the rough wool of his coat brushed and caught against Steve's fine dinner jacket.

After a moment, Steve risked looking over at him. Barton was still smiling, softly, eyes on the trees. They smoked in silence, trading looks back and forth until Steve had finished his cigarette. Then Barton shot another smile at Steve, bumped against him so casually it might have been an accident, and then pushed off the wall, ground out his own cigarette on the stones of the terrace, and started walking away. Steve stood up straight, too, a question forming on his lips - where was he going? Or possibly, what was this? But then Barton looked back, and nodded in the direction where he'd been heading. 

Steve paused, then followed him.

He did wonder, as they plunged into the dark, if he was about to get jumped, and not in a good way. But he was a soldier. He thought he could take down this rangy, graceful man if need be. But he did hope he wouldn't have to.

They landed in a pool of light by the gate to the service court, under one of Stark's electric lamps. The contrast to the darkness burned Steve's eyes, but at least he could see Barton properly.

He had blue eyes. Blue eyes, and very pink lips. Very pink lips that were curling into another one of those soft, slow smiles.

"Not interested in the party, sir?"

"Not tonight. Not out hunting?"

"Not tonight."

There was a moment of silence, the two of them looking at each other, Steve's cheeks feeling flushed again - but then he looked away, out into the darkness around them. That was one of the problems with electric light. It was so bright that it made it hard to see beyond it. You couldn't know what was out there. Or who. "This isn't a good place to do this."

Barton tsked softly and, to Steve's immense surprise, reached out and touched his jaw, turning his face back towards him. It was an extremely bold gesture, especially out in the open like this. Steve almost shied away - was the man trying to get them in trouble? - but then he registered Barton's expression. There was nothing louche or even conniving about it. His eyebrows were knit, lip pulled between his teeth in a gesture that looked far more nervous than flirtatious. He met Steve's eyes, and Steve felt like he could see a calculation there. A decision.

"I can't hear you very well," Barton said, slowly, like the words were reluctant to leave his mouth. "I can't understand if you face away."

"Oh - oh." Steve looked up at the lamp, which he immediately regretted - dots danced in front of his eyes. But he understood why Barton had brought him to that spot, now. "I'm sorry."

Barton shrugged. "It is what it is."

"No, I mean to say, I'm sorry I didn't realize."

"Oh - why should you?"

"I don't know." But he still felt bad about it. He looked out into the dark around them, back the way they'd come, then at the gate. He wanted to keep talking, but he felt exposed out here, and though they'd have privacy in his own room, getting there without being seen by servants or guests would be a challenge. He looked back at Barton. "Do you have somewhere we could go?"

Barton pulled his lips between his teeth again, but then nodded. "Cottage." He nodded into the dark, and Steve followed him again.

He did wonder why Barton hadn't taken him there in the first place, but he understood when they arrived and Barton swung the door open to reveal the other gamekeeper, Coulson, sitting by the fire reading a book.

Coulson jumped up when he saw their visitor, and saluted. "Sir!"

Steve laughed. "I've resigned my commission, no need for that."

"Old habits, sir. Apologies. I followed your career with some interest, knowing Lord Stark was a friend - but - you don't want to hear about that." His eyes flickered to Barton, who was lounging against the room's heavy wood table, looking amused.

"Quite all right. I - ah - Barton and I struck up a conversation, and…" He looked around. The cottage had electric light, just like the house. That was unusual, but it was the exact sort of thing Stark would do. Making sure his tenants had all the same modern conveniences he enjoyed. There were reasons he and Stark were friends. "We were looking for somewhere with better lighting."

"Of course." His eyes flickered to Barton again, and Steve felt like he was missing a full conversation in their looks. The two were obviously close. "The kettle's still hot. Have some tea. I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you. Nice to meet you." Steve held out his hand, and Coulson shook it enthusiastically.

"You too, sir. Good night." He disappeared up the stairs, presumably to his bedroom. 

Steve turned around and found Barton grinning at him. "He likes you. He really did follow your career, he was thrilled when you arrived."

"Oh - I didn't know I had fans."

Barton just shook his head and turned to warm up the kettle again. "He's my pa," he added, a moment later. "Or as close to as anything. In case you were wondering." He glanced back to see if Steve responded.

"As close to as anything?"

"He caught me poaching and took me in, instead of turning me over to the law like he could've. Could've lost his position for it, but Stark supported him. He's a good man. They both are."

Steve nodded.

"And you, too. I didn't forget you standing up for me in the village."

Steve scoffed. "That was nothing, any decent man would have."

"Exactly." The kettle was already steaming again. Barton poured the hot water into a pot and set it and two teacups on a table by the fire. "Hope this is all right, we're a pledge house. My real father was a drunk, and so was Phil's."

"It's lovely. I prefer not to drink."

They settled by the fire. The mood was different now. Gentler than out in the dark. But Steve was savoring the chance to be close to Barton. Really get a good look at him. And maybe feel like he was beginning to understand him, a little.

"I don't know your Christian name," he said, the words tumbling out as the realization hit him.

Barton smiled. "It's Clinton. I prefer Clint. Yours is… Stephen?"

"I prefer Steve."

Barton smiled. "Steve. Do I have permission to call you that?"

"Yes. May I call you Clint?"

"Yes." Barton - Clint - sipped his tea, and smiled at him. "This is a new one, a grand man from the big house sitting here in his dinner jacker calling me Clint."

Steve choked a little on his tea. "I'm not grand."

"You look grand."

"I'm really not. Can you not - oh."

"What?"

"I'm Cockney, Clint. I have an accent. I never managed to drop it - no. Never wanted to drop it. I'm not grand. I'm from the East End. Shoreditch. I grew up rough. My parents were Irish and my da died when I was very young. Ma and I were half starved, half the time."

"That's what that is!"

"What?"

"You talked different, but I didn't know why. Thought it might be some posh accent I hadn't seen before, but it was familiar. You're a Cockney… that's amazing. I grew up rough, too. Sheffield. My parents died when me and my brother were young and we joined a circus."

"Hence the tumbling and the shooting tricks." And the accent. Steve had recognized the Yorkshire lilt of it. It hadn't sounded exactly Sheffield, but he figured that was a mix of moving around and the deafness - he remembered now how that sounded, from his childhood, from people he'd known who didn't hear well.

"Yes. Then that went belly up, and I ended up hunting for my dinner in Stark's woods, and became the man you see before you now." Steve, unable to help himself, looked Clint up and down. Clint laughed. "I like that you're not grand, some of those grand men, they like a bit of rough, slumming it, but I never… it doesn't sit right."

"No. I know. I agree."

Another smile formed on Clint's lips. "So then what do you like, Captain Rogers? Steve."

"This." He felt himself blush, and Clint, did, too. But it was the truth, and sometimes - often - that was the best choice. He stretched out his legs so they were close to Clint, and shrugged. "I find you interesting. And it's a relief to be away from the grandness. Tony is a good man, but it's not my world."

Clint stretched out his legs, too, and pressed the closest against Steve's. The cloth of his trousers felt warm from the fire. "Good. Good that you like it."

"And what do you like?"

"This. I find you interesting, too. And attractive." His eyes flickered to Steve's, a touch of anxiety back between his eyebrows. It was always a risk, even when you thought you were in the clear.

"Good. Because I think you're beautiful."

That raised a blush, quick and vivid. Steve liked it a lot, and wondered what else he might be able to do to get that reaction.

"You must not have seen many men in your life."

Steve laughed. "I'm a soldier, Clint. I've seen plenty."

Clint moved fast, after that - one moment he was in his own chair, cradling his tea and blushing, and the next he was across the space between them, putting aside Steve's own cup of tea before crawling into his lap and kissing him, hard. They were safe here. Safe, and comfortable, and full of liking for each other, and Steve wrapped his arms around Clint's waist and kissed him back just as hard, days - weeks - of wanting pouring themselves out in lips and tongue and the tight grasp of fingers on Clint's hips.

When they pulled apart several minutes later, Steve met Clint's eyes, grinned, and stood up, bringing Clint with him - Clint seemed to understand immediately and moved fast, wrapping his long legs around Steve's waist and clinging on. "Bedroom's upstairs," he said, his voice low and warm and rough. "On the left. I'll put out the lights and be up." He pressed another kiss to Steve's lips, then slid off him, and began banking up the fire to leave overnight. Steve watched him for a moment, until Clint turned and gave him an inquiring look, and then he headed upstairs. There were electric lights there, too, and an indoor, upstairs WC. Stark was more than good to his tenants. Steve was glad to see it. But even gladder to see the wide bed in Clint's bedroom, spread in a worn homemade quilt and looking terribly inviting. 

He perched on the edge of it, and waited, listening to Clint move around downstairs. By the time Clint got upstairs Steve was nervous, but it all cleared away again as soon as Clint's eyes found him on the bed and he smiled - every time he smiled like that, nothing else mattered. He crossed the room and straddled Steve's lap, and a moment later they were a tangle of limbs on the bed, struggling to remove boots and jackets, to undo buttons and studs. Steve hated his grand clothes then even more then than he usually did. But eventually they got it all off, dropping everything into a messy pile of practical tweeds and too-fine wool at the foot of the bed. It was the sort of thing to make a valet shudder, but they had other concerns, like the warmth of skin and the soft rasp of hair and the arcing, taut curves of bodies kept well-trained, and the soft gasps and murmurs and hurried nods that told enough of what they needed to know of each other's desires.

 

They woke in the morning to bright morning light and a tangle of quilts and bodies. Clint's head was cushioned on Steve's chest, and he stayed right there, smiling face rising and falling slightly with each breath Steve took. "I half thought you'd be gone in the morning," Clint mumbled, his voice soft from sleep.

"No," Steve answered, just as soft, and reached up tentatively. When he settled his hand in Clint's hair, the other man sighed and closed his eyes, which seemed the best sort of permission. Steve stroked his hair, and watched the light filter through the lace curtains onto the ceiling. He hadn't felt sure of what came next ever since he left the army. He still wasn't sure, but for the first time, he felt like whatever did happen next, it was going to be lovely.


End file.
